LO AND LU.

Inthy holy need, our country,Shatter other idols straightway;Quench our household fires before us,Reap the pomp of harvests low;Strike aside each glad ambitionBorn of youth and golden leisure,Leave us only to rememberFaith we swore thee long ago!All the passionate sweep of heart-strings,Thirst and famine, din of battle,All the wild despair and sorrowThat were ever or shall be,Are too little, are too worthless,Laid along thine upward pathwayAs with our souls’ strength we lay them,Stepping-stones, O Love! for thee.If we be thy burden-bearers,Let us ease thee of thy sorrow;If our hands be thine avengers,Life or death, they shall not fail;If thy heart be just and tender,Wrong us not with hesitation:Take us, trust us, lead us, love us,Till the eternal Truth prevail!

Inthy holy need, our country,

Shatter other idols straightway;

Quench our household fires before us,

Reap the pomp of harvests low;

Strike aside each glad ambition

Born of youth and golden leisure,

Leave us only to remember

Faith we swore thee long ago!

All the passionate sweep of heart-strings,Thirst and famine, din of battle,All the wild despair and sorrowThat were ever or shall be,Are too little, are too worthless,Laid along thine upward pathwayAs with our souls’ strength we lay them,Stepping-stones, O Love! for thee.

All the passionate sweep of heart-strings,

Thirst and famine, din of battle,

All the wild despair and sorrow

That were ever or shall be,

Are too little, are too worthless,

Laid along thine upward pathway

As with our souls’ strength we lay them,

Stepping-stones, O Love! for thee.

If we be thy burden-bearers,Let us ease thee of thy sorrow;If our hands be thine avengers,Life or death, they shall not fail;If thy heart be just and tender,Wrong us not with hesitation:Take us, trust us, lead us, love us,Till the eternal Truth prevail!

If we be thy burden-bearers,

Let us ease thee of thy sorrow;

If our hands be thine avengers,

Life or death, they shall not fail;

If thy heart be just and tender,

Wrong us not with hesitation:

Take us, trust us, lead us, love us,

Till the eternal Truth prevail!

Whenwe began this never-endedKind companionship,Childish greetings lit the splendidLaughter at the lip;You were ten and I eleven;Henceforth, as we knew,Was all the mischief under heavenSet down to Lo and Lu.Long we fought and cooed together,Held an equal reign,Snowballs could we fire and gather,Twine a clover chain;Sing in G an A flat chorus’Mid the tuneful crew,—No harmonious angels o’er usTaught us, Lo or Lu.Pleasant studious times have seen usArm-in-arm of yore,Learnèd books, well-thumbed between us,Spread along the floor;Perched in pine-tops, sunk in barley,Rogues, where rogues were few,Right or wrong, in deed and parley,Comrades, Lo and Lu.Which could leap where banks were wider,Mock the cat-bird’s call?Which preside and pop the ciderAt a festival?Who became the finer StoicStabbing trouble thro’,Thrilled to hear of things heroicOftener, Lo or Lu?Earliest, blithest! then and everMirror of my heart!Grow we old and wise and cleverNow, so far apart;Still as tender as a mother’sFloats our prayer for two;Neither yet can spare the other’s“God bless—Lo and Lu!”

Whenwe began this never-ended

Kind companionship,

Childish greetings lit the splendid

Laughter at the lip;

You were ten and I eleven;

Henceforth, as we knew,

Was all the mischief under heaven

Set down to Lo and Lu.

Long we fought and cooed together,Held an equal reign,Snowballs could we fire and gather,Twine a clover chain;Sing in G an A flat chorus’Mid the tuneful crew,—No harmonious angels o’er usTaught us, Lo or Lu.

Long we fought and cooed together,

Held an equal reign,

Snowballs could we fire and gather,

Twine a clover chain;

Sing in G an A flat chorus

’Mid the tuneful crew,—

No harmonious angels o’er us

Taught us, Lo or Lu.

Pleasant studious times have seen usArm-in-arm of yore,Learnèd books, well-thumbed between us,Spread along the floor;Perched in pine-tops, sunk in barley,Rogues, where rogues were few,Right or wrong, in deed and parley,Comrades, Lo and Lu.

Pleasant studious times have seen us

Arm-in-arm of yore,

Learnèd books, well-thumbed between us,

Spread along the floor;

Perched in pine-tops, sunk in barley,

Rogues, where rogues were few,

Right or wrong, in deed and parley,

Comrades, Lo and Lu.

Which could leap where banks were wider,Mock the cat-bird’s call?Which preside and pop the ciderAt a festival?Who became the finer StoicStabbing trouble thro’,Thrilled to hear of things heroicOftener, Lo or Lu?

Which could leap where banks were wider,

Mock the cat-bird’s call?

Which preside and pop the cider

At a festival?

Who became the finer Stoic

Stabbing trouble thro’,

Thrilled to hear of things heroic

Oftener, Lo or Lu?

Earliest, blithest! then and everMirror of my heart!Grow we old and wise and cleverNow, so far apart;Still as tender as a mother’sFloats our prayer for two;Neither yet can spare the other’s“God bless—Lo and Lu!”

Earliest, blithest! then and ever

Mirror of my heart!

Grow we old and wise and clever

Now, so far apart;

Still as tender as a mother’s

Floats our prayer for two;

Neither yet can spare the other’s

“God bless—Lo and Lu!”

A larkfrom cloud to cloud alongIn wildest labyrinths of song,—So jubilant and proud and strong;A ray that climbs the garden wallAnd leaps the height at evenfall,—So clear, so faint, so mystical;A summer fragrance on the breeze,A shower upon the lilied leas,A sunburst over violet seas,A wand of light, a fairy spellBeyond a faltering lip to tell;Bright Music’s perfect miracle.Still live the gift outrunning praise,Inviolate from this earthly placeAnd fitly pure for heavenly days,Sincerity its stay and guard,A glowing nature, happy-starred,Its dwelling now and afterward!Where’er that gentle heart shall be,Responsive to their source I seeThe fount and form of melody;And my foreshadowed spirit drawnOf hindrance free, and unforlorn,To list thro’ some ambrosial dawn,To follow with oblivious eyesThe old delight, the fresh surprise,Adown the glades of Paradise!

A larkfrom cloud to cloud alongIn wildest labyrinths of song,—So jubilant and proud and strong;

A larkfrom cloud to cloud along

In wildest labyrinths of song,—

So jubilant and proud and strong;

A ray that climbs the garden wallAnd leaps the height at evenfall,—So clear, so faint, so mystical;

A ray that climbs the garden wall

And leaps the height at evenfall,—

So clear, so faint, so mystical;

A summer fragrance on the breeze,A shower upon the lilied leas,A sunburst over violet seas,

A summer fragrance on the breeze,

A shower upon the lilied leas,

A sunburst over violet seas,

A wand of light, a fairy spellBeyond a faltering lip to tell;Bright Music’s perfect miracle.

A wand of light, a fairy spell

Beyond a faltering lip to tell;

Bright Music’s perfect miracle.

Still live the gift outrunning praise,Inviolate from this earthly placeAnd fitly pure for heavenly days,

Still live the gift outrunning praise,

Inviolate from this earthly place

And fitly pure for heavenly days,

Sincerity its stay and guard,A glowing nature, happy-starred,Its dwelling now and afterward!

Sincerity its stay and guard,

A glowing nature, happy-starred,

Its dwelling now and afterward!

Where’er that gentle heart shall be,Responsive to their source I seeThe fount and form of melody;

Where’er that gentle heart shall be,

Responsive to their source I see

The fount and form of melody;

And my foreshadowed spirit drawnOf hindrance free, and unforlorn,To list thro’ some ambrosial dawn,

And my foreshadowed spirit drawn

Of hindrance free, and unforlorn,

To list thro’ some ambrosial dawn,

To follow with oblivious eyesThe old delight, the fresh surprise,Adown the glades of Paradise!

To follow with oblivious eyes

The old delight, the fresh surprise,

Adown the glades of Paradise!

Fugitiveto nobler air,Dead avow thee who shall dare?Freeborn spirit, eagle heart,Full of life thou wert and art!Tender was thy glance, and bland;Honor swayed thy giving hand;Sweet as fragrance on the senseStole thy rich intelligence,And thy coming, like the spring,Moved the saddest lips to sing.Wealth above all argosies!Sunshine of our drooping eyes!Be to Heaven, for Heaven’s desert,Fair as unto us thou wert.Tho’ the groping breezes moanHere about thy burial-stone,Never sorrow’s lightest breathLinks thy happy name with death,Lest therein our love should be,Thou that livest! false to thee.

Fugitiveto nobler air,

Dead avow thee who shall dare?

Freeborn spirit, eagle heart,

Full of life thou wert and art!

Tender was thy glance, and bland;

Honor swayed thy giving hand;

Sweet as fragrance on the sense

Stole thy rich intelligence,

And thy coming, like the spring,

Moved the saddest lips to sing.

Wealth above all argosies!Sunshine of our drooping eyes!Be to Heaven, for Heaven’s desert,Fair as unto us thou wert.Tho’ the groping breezes moanHere about thy burial-stone,Never sorrow’s lightest breathLinks thy happy name with death,Lest therein our love should be,Thou that livest! false to thee.

Wealth above all argosies!

Sunshine of our drooping eyes!

Be to Heaven, for Heaven’s desert,

Fair as unto us thou wert.

Tho’ the groping breezes moan

Here about thy burial-stone,

Never sorrow’s lightest breath

Links thy happy name with death,

Lest therein our love should be,

Thou that livest! false to thee.

Mydarling rides across the sand;The wind is warm, the wind is bland;It lifts the pony’s glossy mane,So light and proud she holds his rein.Not easier bears a leaf the dewThan she her scarf and kirtle blue,And on her wrist, in bells and jess,The falcon perched for idleness.That merry bird, O would I were!In joy with her, in joy with her.My darling comes not from her bower,The lowered pennon sweeps the tower;The larches droop their tassels low,And bells are marshalled to and fro.My heart, my heart, beholds her now,The pallid hands, the saintly brow,The lily with chill death oppressedAgainst the summer of her breast:That lily pale, O would I were!In peace with her, in peace with her.

Mydarling rides across the sand;

The wind is warm, the wind is bland;

It lifts the pony’s glossy mane,

So light and proud she holds his rein.

Not easier bears a leaf the dew

Than she her scarf and kirtle blue,

And on her wrist, in bells and jess,

The falcon perched for idleness.

That merry bird, O would I were!

In joy with her, in joy with her.

My darling comes not from her bower,The lowered pennon sweeps the tower;The larches droop their tassels low,And bells are marshalled to and fro.My heart, my heart, beholds her now,The pallid hands, the saintly brow,The lily with chill death oppressedAgainst the summer of her breast:That lily pale, O would I were!In peace with her, in peace with her.

My darling comes not from her bower,

The lowered pennon sweeps the tower;

The larches droop their tassels low,

And bells are marshalled to and fro.

My heart, my heart, beholds her now,

The pallid hands, the saintly brow,

The lily with chill death oppressed

Against the summer of her breast:

That lily pale, O would I were!

In peace with her, in peace with her.

Thisnight my heart’s world-roaming dreams are met,The while I gaze across the river-brim,Beyond the anchored ships with cordage dim,To the clear lights, that like a coronetOn thee, my noble city, nobly set,Along thy summits trail their golden rim.Peril forsake thee! so shall peal my hymn;Glory betide thee! Nor may men forget,Shelter of scholars, poets, artisans!The sap that filled the perfect vein of Greece,And hung with bloom her fair, illustrious tree,Unheeded, thro’ dull eras made advance,Unfruitful, stole to topmost boughs in peaceTwice centuries twelve; and flowered again in thee.

Thisnight my heart’s world-roaming dreams are met,

The while I gaze across the river-brim,

Beyond the anchored ships with cordage dim,

To the clear lights, that like a coronet

On thee, my noble city, nobly set,

Along thy summits trail their golden rim.

Peril forsake thee! so shall peal my hymn;

Glory betide thee! Nor may men forget,

Shelter of scholars, poets, artisans!

The sap that filled the perfect vein of Greece,

And hung with bloom her fair, illustrious tree,

Unheeded, thro’ dull eras made advance,

Unfruitful, stole to topmost boughs in peace

Twice centuries twelve; and flowered again in thee.

Thered and yellow leafCame down upon the wind,Across the ripened grain;The red and yellow leaf,Before me and behind,Sang shrilly in my brain:“Pride and growth of spring,Ease, and olden cheer,Shall no longer be:What benighted thing,Dreamer, dost thou here?Follow, follow me!“Youth is done, and skill;What is any trustAny more to thee?Pale thou art and chill;All of love is dust:Follow, follow me!”“Thou red and yellow leaf,O whither?” from my staffI called adown the wind;The red and yellow leaf,I heard its mocking laughBefore me and behind!

Thered and yellow leafCame down upon the wind,Across the ripened grain;The red and yellow leaf,Before me and behind,Sang shrilly in my brain:

Thered and yellow leaf

Came down upon the wind,

Across the ripened grain;

The red and yellow leaf,

Before me and behind,

Sang shrilly in my brain:

“Pride and growth of spring,Ease, and olden cheer,Shall no longer be:What benighted thing,Dreamer, dost thou here?Follow, follow me!

“Pride and growth of spring,

Ease, and olden cheer,

Shall no longer be:

What benighted thing,

Dreamer, dost thou here?

Follow, follow me!

“Youth is done, and skill;What is any trustAny more to thee?Pale thou art and chill;All of love is dust:Follow, follow me!”

“Youth is done, and skill;

What is any trust

Any more to thee?

Pale thou art and chill;

All of love is dust:

Follow, follow me!”

“Thou red and yellow leaf,O whither?” from my staffI called adown the wind;The red and yellow leaf,I heard its mocking laughBefore me and behind!

“Thou red and yellow leaf,

O whither?” from my staff

I called adown the wind;

The red and yellow leaf,

I heard its mocking laugh

Before me and behind!

Somewhere, sometime, I walked a field whereinThe daisies held high festival in white,Thinking: Alas! he with a young delightAmong them once his golden web did spin;He who made half-divine an olden inn,The Tabard; sung of Ariadne bright,And penned of Sarra’s king at fall of night,“Where now I leave, there will I fresh begin.”Then straightway heard I merry laughter riseFrom one that wrote, thrown on a daisy-bed,Who, seeing the two-fold wonder in mine eyes,Spake, lifting up his fair and reverend head:“Child! this is the earth-completing Paradise,And thou, that strayest here, art centuries dead.”

Somewhere, sometime, I walked a field wherein

The daisies held high festival in white,

Thinking: Alas! he with a young delight

Among them once his golden web did spin;

He who made half-divine an olden inn,

The Tabard; sung of Ariadne bright,

And penned of Sarra’s king at fall of night,

“Where now I leave, there will I fresh begin.”

Then straightway heard I merry laughter rise

From one that wrote, thrown on a daisy-bed,

Who, seeing the two-fold wonder in mine eyes,

Spake, lifting up his fair and reverend head:

“Child! this is the earth-completing Paradise,

And thou, that strayest here, art centuries dead.”

FOOTNOTE:[A]Lydgate so calls him,. . . . “of righte and equitie,Since he in Englishe in rhyming was the beste.”

[A]Lydgate so calls him,. . . . “of righte and equitie,Since he in Englishe in rhyming was the beste.”

[A]Lydgate so calls him,

. . . . “of righte and equitie,Since he in Englishe in rhyming was the beste.”

. . . . “of righte and equitie,

Since he in Englishe in rhyming was the beste.”

Thisis earth’s liberty-day:Yonder the linden-trees swayTo music of winds from the west,And I hear the old merry refrain,Of the stream that has broken its chainBy the gates of the City of Rest,The City whose exquisite towersI see thro’ the sunny long hoursIf but from my window I lean;Yea, dearest! thy threshold of stone,Thine ivy-grown door and my ownHave naught save the river between.Thine on that heavenly heightAre beauty, and warmth, and delight;And long as our parting shall be,Live there in thy summer! nor knowHow near lie the frost and the snowOn hearts that are breaking for thee.

Thisis earth’s liberty-day:Yonder the linden-trees swayTo music of winds from the west,And I hear the old merry refrain,Of the stream that has broken its chainBy the gates of the City of Rest,

Thisis earth’s liberty-day:

Yonder the linden-trees sway

To music of winds from the west,

And I hear the old merry refrain,

Of the stream that has broken its chain

By the gates of the City of Rest,

The City whose exquisite towersI see thro’ the sunny long hoursIf but from my window I lean;Yea, dearest! thy threshold of stone,Thine ivy-grown door and my ownHave naught save the river between.

The City whose exquisite towers

I see thro’ the sunny long hours

If but from my window I lean;

Yea, dearest! thy threshold of stone,

Thine ivy-grown door and my own

Have naught save the river between.

Thine on that heavenly heightAre beauty, and warmth, and delight;And long as our parting shall be,Live there in thy summer! nor knowHow near lie the frost and the snowOn hearts that are breaking for thee.

Thine on that heavenly height

Are beauty, and warmth, and delight;

And long as our parting shall be,

Live there in thy summer! nor know

How near lie the frost and the snow

On hearts that are breaking for thee.

Dearwitnesses, all luminous, eloquent,Stacked thickly on the tesselated floor!The soldier-blood stirs in me, as of yoreIn sire and grandsire who to battle went:I seem to know the shaded valley tent,The armed and bearded men, the thrill of war,Horses that prance to hear the cannon roar,Shrill bugle-calls, and camp-fire merriment.And as fair symbols of heroic things,Not void of tears mine eyes must e’en beholdThese banners lovelier as the deeper marred:A panegyric never writ for kingsOn every tarnished staff and tattered fold;And by them, tranquil spirits standing guard.

Dearwitnesses, all luminous, eloquent,

Stacked thickly on the tesselated floor!

The soldier-blood stirs in me, as of yore

In sire and grandsire who to battle went:

I seem to know the shaded valley tent,

The armed and bearded men, the thrill of war,

Horses that prance to hear the cannon roar,

Shrill bugle-calls, and camp-fire merriment.

And as fair symbols of heroic things,

Not void of tears mine eyes must e’en behold

These banners lovelier as the deeper marred:

A panegyric never writ for kings

On every tarnished staff and tattered fold;

And by them, tranquil spirits standing guard.

[From the French of Chateaubriand.][B]

Alongher coffin-lid the spotless roses restA father’s sad, sad hand culled from a happy bower;Earth, they were born of thee: take back upon thy breastYoung child and tender flower.To this unhallowed world, ah! let them not return,To this dark world where grief and sin and anguish lower;The winds might wound and break, the sun might parch and burnYoung child and tender flower.Thou sleepest, O Elise! thy years were brief and bright;The burden and the heat are spared thy noonday hour;For dewy morn has flown, and on its pinions light,Young child and tender flower.

Alongher coffin-lid the spotless roses restA father’s sad, sad hand culled from a happy bower;Earth, they were born of thee: take back upon thy breastYoung child and tender flower.

Alongher coffin-lid the spotless roses rest

A father’s sad, sad hand culled from a happy bower;

Earth, they were born of thee: take back upon thy breast

Young child and tender flower.

To this unhallowed world, ah! let them not return,To this dark world where grief and sin and anguish lower;The winds might wound and break, the sun might parch and burnYoung child and tender flower.

To this unhallowed world, ah! let them not return,

To this dark world where grief and sin and anguish lower;

The winds might wound and break, the sun might parch and burn

Young child and tender flower.

Thou sleepest, O Elise! thy years were brief and bright;The burden and the heat are spared thy noonday hour;For dewy morn has flown, and on its pinions light,Young child and tender flower.

Thou sleepest, O Elise! thy years were brief and bright;

The burden and the heat are spared thy noonday hour;

For dewy morn has flown, and on its pinions light,

Young child and tender flower.

FOOTNOTE:[B]The author’s title runs: “Sur la Fille de mon Ami, enterrée devant moi hier au Cimetière de Passy: 16 Juin, 1832.”

[B]The author’s title runs: “Sur la Fille de mon Ami, enterrée devant moi hier au Cimetière de Passy: 16 Juin, 1832.”

I sawthe dusty curtain, ages old,Its purple tatters twitched aside, and lo!The fourth King Harry’s reign in lusty showBehind, its deeds in living file outrolledOf peace and war; some sage, some mad, and bold:Last, near a tree, a bridled neighing rowWith latest spoils encumbered, saints do know,By Hal and Hal’s boon cronies; on the woldLaughter of prince and commons; there and hereTravellers fleeing; drunken thieves that sang;Wild bells; a tavern’s echoing jolly shout;Signals along the highway, full of cheer;A gate that closed with not incautious clang,When that sweet rogue, bad Jack! came lumbering out.

I sawthe dusty curtain, ages old,

Its purple tatters twitched aside, and lo!

The fourth King Harry’s reign in lusty show

Behind, its deeds in living file outrolled

Of peace and war; some sage, some mad, and bold:

Last, near a tree, a bridled neighing row

With latest spoils encumbered, saints do know,

By Hal and Hal’s boon cronies; on the wold

Laughter of prince and commons; there and here

Travellers fleeing; drunken thieves that sang;

Wild bells; a tavern’s echoing jolly shout;

Signals along the highway, full of cheer;

A gate that closed with not incautious clang,

When that sweet rogue, bad Jack! came lumbering out.

Listen!the motherCroons o’er her darling;Birds to the summerCall from the trees;Sailors in chorusChant of the ocean:The poet’s heart singethSongs sweeter than these.Thy lute, gentle lover,To her thou adorest;Ye troubadours! pæansFor princes of Guelph:But Heaven’s own harpersBreathe not in their musicThe song that his happy heartSings to itself;The changeless, soft song that itSings to itself!

Listen!the motherCroons o’er her darling;Birds to the summerCall from the trees;Sailors in chorusChant of the ocean:The poet’s heart singethSongs sweeter than these.

Listen!the mother

Croons o’er her darling;

Birds to the summer

Call from the trees;

Sailors in chorus

Chant of the ocean:

The poet’s heart singeth

Songs sweeter than these.

Thy lute, gentle lover,To her thou adorest;Ye troubadours! pæansFor princes of Guelph:But Heaven’s own harpersBreathe not in their musicThe song that his happy heartSings to itself;The changeless, soft song that itSings to itself!

Thy lute, gentle lover,

To her thou adorest;

Ye troubadours! pæans

For princes of Guelph:

But Heaven’s own harpers

Breathe not in their music

The song that his happy heart

Sings to itself;

The changeless, soft song that it

Sings to itself!

FOOTNOTE:[C]For this trifle, obligations are due to Maestro Mozart. A sunny little opening Andante of his, from the Second Sonata in A major, suggested immediately and quite irresistibly the words here appended, which follow its rhythm throughout.

[C]For this trifle, obligations are due to Maestro Mozart. A sunny little opening Andante of his, from the Second Sonata in A major, suggested immediately and quite irresistibly the words here appended, which follow its rhythm throughout.

“Closeas a mask he wore this fiery sinOf hate; and daring peril foremost, diedEre yet the wrath of law was justified,Hopeless, with memory such as miscreants win.One sacred head he smote, encircled inA people’s arms; and shook, with storms allied,The pillars of the world from side to side.”...E’en so the Angel’s record must begin.Show me not anguish since that traitor-strokeRang o’er the brunt of war; yet child, O child!When later days bring bitter thoughts, recall,No maledictions on his name I spoke,Catching lost cues; but asked, well-reconciled,God, our Interpreter, to right us all.

“Closeas a mask he wore this fiery sin

Of hate; and daring peril foremost, died

Ere yet the wrath of law was justified,

Hopeless, with memory such as miscreants win.

One sacred head he smote, encircled in

A people’s arms; and shook, with storms allied,

The pillars of the world from side to side.”...

E’en so the Angel’s record must begin.

Show me not anguish since that traitor-stroke

Rang o’er the brunt of war; yet child, O child!

When later days bring bitter thoughts, recall,

No maledictions on his name I spoke,

Catching lost cues; but asked, well-reconciled,

God, our Interpreter, to right us all.

Beautifulolive-brown brows, chin where the fairy-print lies;Vagrant dark tresses above splendid mysterious eyes;Mellowest fires that glow under the calm of her face,Girl of all girls in the world for mould and for color and grace.Such are the opal-like maids that flash in the groves to and fro,Dancers Arabian; such, languorous ages ago,Ptolemy’s daughter; and so, breathing faint cassia and musk,Veilèd young Moors on divans, singing and sighing at dusk.Never in opiate dreams have I o’ertaken you, sweet;Never with henna-tipped hands; never with silken-shod feet;Still the love-charm of the East must over and over be told:By-and-by havoc with hearts!... Ah, slowly, my seven-year-old!

Beautifulolive-brown brows, chin where the fairy-print lies;Vagrant dark tresses above splendid mysterious eyes;

Beautifulolive-brown brows, chin where the fairy-print lies;

Vagrant dark tresses above splendid mysterious eyes;

Mellowest fires that glow under the calm of her face,Girl of all girls in the world for mould and for color and grace.

Mellowest fires that glow under the calm of her face,

Girl of all girls in the world for mould and for color and grace.

Such are the opal-like maids that flash in the groves to and fro,Dancers Arabian; such, languorous ages ago,

Such are the opal-like maids that flash in the groves to and fro,

Dancers Arabian; such, languorous ages ago,

Ptolemy’s daughter; and so, breathing faint cassia and musk,Veilèd young Moors on divans, singing and sighing at dusk.

Ptolemy’s daughter; and so, breathing faint cassia and musk,

Veilèd young Moors on divans, singing and sighing at dusk.

Never in opiate dreams have I o’ertaken you, sweet;Never with henna-tipped hands; never with silken-shod feet;

Never in opiate dreams have I o’ertaken you, sweet;

Never with henna-tipped hands; never with silken-shod feet;

Still the love-charm of the East must over and over be told:By-and-by havoc with hearts!... Ah, slowly, my seven-year-old!

Still the love-charm of the East must over and over be told:

By-and-by havoc with hearts!... Ah, slowly, my seven-year-old!

Helifted his forehead, and stood at his height,And gathered the cloak round his noble age,This man, the law-giver, Charondas the Greek;And loud the Eubœans called to him: “Speak,We listen and learn, O sage!”“In peace shall ye come where the people be,”Spake the lofty figure with flashing eyes:“But whoso comes armed to the public hallShall suffer his death before us all.”And the hearers believed him wise.The years sped quick and the years dragged slow;In council oft was the throng arrayed,But never the statued chamber sawThe gleam of a weapon; for loving the law,The Greeks from their hearts obeyed.War’s challenge knocked at the city gates;Students flocked to the front, grown bold;The strong men, girded, faced up to the north;The women wept to the gods; and forthWent the brave of the days of old.Peace winged her flight to the city gates;Young men and strong, they followed fastBack to the breast of their fair, free land:Charondas, afar on the foreign strand,Remained at his post the last.Their leader he, in war as in word,The fire of youth for his life-long lease,The strength of Mars in the arm that stoodSeven hot decades upheld for goodIn the turbulent courts of Greece.The fight is finished, the council meets.Who is the tardy comer withoutIn cuirass and shield, and with clanking sword,Who strides up the aisles without a word,Rousing that awe-struck shout?The tardy comer home from the field—Great gods! the first to forget and belieThe law he honored, the law he formed:“Charondas—stand! you enter armed,”With a shudder the hundreds cry.The men who loved him on every side,The men he led to the victor’s gain,He paused a moment, the fearless Greek;A sudden glow on his ashen cheek,A sudden thought in his brain.“I seal the law with my soul and might:I do not break it,” Charondas said.He raised his blade, and plunged to the hilt.Ah! vain their rush, for in glory and guilt,He lay on the marble, dead.

Helifted his forehead, and stood at his height,

And gathered the cloak round his noble age,

This man, the law-giver, Charondas the Greek;

And loud the Eubœans called to him: “Speak,

We listen and learn, O sage!”

“In peace shall ye come where the people be,”Spake the lofty figure with flashing eyes:“But whoso comes armed to the public hallShall suffer his death before us all.”And the hearers believed him wise.

“In peace shall ye come where the people be,”

Spake the lofty figure with flashing eyes:

“But whoso comes armed to the public hall

Shall suffer his death before us all.”

And the hearers believed him wise.

The years sped quick and the years dragged slow;In council oft was the throng arrayed,But never the statued chamber sawThe gleam of a weapon; for loving the law,The Greeks from their hearts obeyed.

The years sped quick and the years dragged slow;

In council oft was the throng arrayed,

But never the statued chamber saw

The gleam of a weapon; for loving the law,

The Greeks from their hearts obeyed.

War’s challenge knocked at the city gates;Students flocked to the front, grown bold;The strong men, girded, faced up to the north;The women wept to the gods; and forthWent the brave of the days of old.

War’s challenge knocked at the city gates;

Students flocked to the front, grown bold;

The strong men, girded, faced up to the north;

The women wept to the gods; and forth

Went the brave of the days of old.

Peace winged her flight to the city gates;Young men and strong, they followed fastBack to the breast of their fair, free land:Charondas, afar on the foreign strand,Remained at his post the last.

Peace winged her flight to the city gates;

Young men and strong, they followed fast

Back to the breast of their fair, free land:

Charondas, afar on the foreign strand,

Remained at his post the last.

Their leader he, in war as in word,The fire of youth for his life-long lease,The strength of Mars in the arm that stoodSeven hot decades upheld for goodIn the turbulent courts of Greece.

Their leader he, in war as in word,

The fire of youth for his life-long lease,

The strength of Mars in the arm that stood

Seven hot decades upheld for good

In the turbulent courts of Greece.

The fight is finished, the council meets.Who is the tardy comer withoutIn cuirass and shield, and with clanking sword,Who strides up the aisles without a word,Rousing that awe-struck shout?

The fight is finished, the council meets.

Who is the tardy comer without

In cuirass and shield, and with clanking sword,

Who strides up the aisles without a word,

Rousing that awe-struck shout?

The tardy comer home from the field—Great gods! the first to forget and belieThe law he honored, the law he formed:“Charondas—stand! you enter armed,”With a shudder the hundreds cry.

The tardy comer home from the field—

Great gods! the first to forget and belie

The law he honored, the law he formed:

“Charondas—stand! you enter armed,”

With a shudder the hundreds cry.

The men who loved him on every side,The men he led to the victor’s gain,He paused a moment, the fearless Greek;A sudden glow on his ashen cheek,A sudden thought in his brain.

The men who loved him on every side,

The men he led to the victor’s gain,

He paused a moment, the fearless Greek;

A sudden glow on his ashen cheek,

A sudden thought in his brain.

“I seal the law with my soul and might:I do not break it,” Charondas said.He raised his blade, and plunged to the hilt.Ah! vain their rush, for in glory and guilt,He lay on the marble, dead.

“I seal the law with my soul and might:

I do not break it,” Charondas said.

He raised his blade, and plunged to the hilt.

Ah! vain their rush, for in glory and guilt,

He lay on the marble, dead.

Thatis she across the way,Dressed as for a holiday,Wandering aimlessly alongIn oblivion of the throng,With her lay of old regret;That is crazy Margaret.And her tale floats up and downThis enchanted Norman town,Told among the wharves and ships,On the children’s babbling lips,Over gossips’ window-sills,In the rectory, thro’ the mills.Very sad and very brief,Graven on a cypress leaf,Is the record of her days.When the aloes were ablazeLong ago, in summertide,He maid Margaret cherished, died.Hush! there is the holier part:He knew nothing of her heart.Tears thrilled in her lustrous eyeBut to see him passing by,And she turned from many a claimDreaming on that dearest name.Solely on his thoughts intentThe rapt student came and went,All the gladness in his looksSprung from visions and from books,Grave with all, and kind to her,His meek peasant worshipper.So she loved him to the last,Keeping her soul’s secret fast,Suffering much and speaking naughtOf the woe her loving wrought;Till the second summertide,The young stranger drooped and died.At the grave, before them all,In the market, in the hall,Down the forest-paths alone,Ever since, in undertoneShe goes singing soft and slow:“When I meet him, he shall know.”Therefore is she eager yet,Poor, unhappy Margaret,Holding still, in faith and truth,The lost idyl of her youth,Seeking fondly and thro’ tears,One who sleeps these forty years.Should he haunt our Norman coast,Should he come, the gentle ghost;Should she tell him of her pain,Of her passion hushed and vain,—Would he grieve? or would he care?What a tragic chance is there!

Thatis she across the way,Dressed as for a holiday,Wandering aimlessly alongIn oblivion of the throng,With her lay of old regret;That is crazy Margaret.

Thatis she across the way,

Dressed as for a holiday,

Wandering aimlessly along

In oblivion of the throng,

With her lay of old regret;

That is crazy Margaret.

And her tale floats up and downThis enchanted Norman town,Told among the wharves and ships,On the children’s babbling lips,Over gossips’ window-sills,In the rectory, thro’ the mills.

And her tale floats up and down

This enchanted Norman town,

Told among the wharves and ships,

On the children’s babbling lips,

Over gossips’ window-sills,

In the rectory, thro’ the mills.

Very sad and very brief,Graven on a cypress leaf,Is the record of her days.When the aloes were ablazeLong ago, in summertide,He maid Margaret cherished, died.

Very sad and very brief,

Graven on a cypress leaf,

Is the record of her days.

When the aloes were ablaze

Long ago, in summertide,

He maid Margaret cherished, died.

Hush! there is the holier part:He knew nothing of her heart.Tears thrilled in her lustrous eyeBut to see him passing by,And she turned from many a claimDreaming on that dearest name.

Hush! there is the holier part:

He knew nothing of her heart.

Tears thrilled in her lustrous eye

But to see him passing by,

And she turned from many a claim

Dreaming on that dearest name.

Solely on his thoughts intentThe rapt student came and went,All the gladness in his looksSprung from visions and from books,Grave with all, and kind to her,His meek peasant worshipper.

Solely on his thoughts intent

The rapt student came and went,

All the gladness in his looks

Sprung from visions and from books,

Grave with all, and kind to her,

His meek peasant worshipper.

So she loved him to the last,Keeping her soul’s secret fast,Suffering much and speaking naughtOf the woe her loving wrought;Till the second summertide,The young stranger drooped and died.

So she loved him to the last,

Keeping her soul’s secret fast,

Suffering much and speaking naught

Of the woe her loving wrought;

Till the second summertide,

The young stranger drooped and died.

At the grave, before them all,In the market, in the hall,Down the forest-paths alone,Ever since, in undertoneShe goes singing soft and slow:“When I meet him, he shall know.”

At the grave, before them all,

In the market, in the hall,

Down the forest-paths alone,

Ever since, in undertone

She goes singing soft and slow:

“When I meet him, he shall know.”

Therefore is she eager yet,Poor, unhappy Margaret,Holding still, in faith and truth,The lost idyl of her youth,Seeking fondly and thro’ tears,One who sleeps these forty years.

Therefore is she eager yet,

Poor, unhappy Margaret,

Holding still, in faith and truth,

The lost idyl of her youth,

Seeking fondly and thro’ tears,

One who sleeps these forty years.

Should he haunt our Norman coast,Should he come, the gentle ghost;Should she tell him of her pain,Of her passion hushed and vain,—Would he grieve? or would he care?What a tragic chance is there!

Should he haunt our Norman coast,

Should he come, the gentle ghost;

Should she tell him of her pain,

Of her passion hushed and vain,—

Would he grieve? or would he care?

What a tragic chance is there!

Thouwanderer, what longing hathThee peace on earth denied,Ah, tell me: constant in no path,Thy pensive currents glide.From dim pursuit and mocking zest,Would I could set thee free!My soul hath its divine unrest,Dear river, like to thee.

Thouwanderer, what longing hathThee peace on earth denied,Ah, tell me: constant in no path,Thy pensive currents glide.

Thouwanderer, what longing hath

Thee peace on earth denied,

Ah, tell me: constant in no path,

Thy pensive currents glide.

From dim pursuit and mocking zest,Would I could set thee free!My soul hath its divine unrest,Dear river, like to thee.

From dim pursuit and mocking zest,

Would I could set thee free!

My soul hath its divine unrest,

Dear river, like to thee.

Whoart thou that nigh to meAlone dost dwell, perpetually?The latch against thy door is mute,I have not heard thy kind salute,And though I live here at the gate,Have never known thy birth or state,Nor seen thy wide colonial landsWith slaves obeying all commands,Or children playing at thy knee;Ah, neighbor mine, unneighborly!The sun beats hard upon thy roof,The tree’s cool shadow waves aloof;Thou dost not heed, nor speak in ire,Nor wound thy calm with vain desire.The cones that patter as they fall,The drifts that build thine outer wall,The rains that glisten in the traceOf thine inscription, dimmed apace,The winds that blow, the birds that sing,—Thou carest not for any thing!Two centuries and more art thouIn solitude abiding; nowThis town is other than thy town;Its lanes are highways broad and brown;The oaken houses of thy day,And inns, and booths, are swept away.Strange spires would meet thine eager eye,New ships sail in, new banners fly;And names are kept of them that fellIn wars to thee incredible.How beautiful thine endless rest!The quiet conscience in thy breast,Thy hidden place of peace, where passThe ghost-like stirrings of the grass;The long immunity from strife,The tumult, love; the trouble, life;The blossom at thy feet, to beA thousand summers, dust like thee;The winding-sheet, that white as worth,Shuts all thy failings in the earth.My silent neighbor! thou and IKeep unobtrusive company.For us each wild October weavesThe glistening clouds, the glowing leaves,And March by March the robin sings,Against the solemn porch of King’s,His sweet good-morrow to us both.O be not harsh with me, nor wroth,That I, apart from all the throng,Break, too, thy silence with a song!

Whoart thou that nigh to me

Alone dost dwell, perpetually?

The latch against thy door is mute,

I have not heard thy kind salute,

And though I live here at the gate,

Have never known thy birth or state,

Nor seen thy wide colonial lands

With slaves obeying all commands,

Or children playing at thy knee;

Ah, neighbor mine, unneighborly!

The sun beats hard upon thy roof,The tree’s cool shadow waves aloof;Thou dost not heed, nor speak in ire,Nor wound thy calm with vain desire.The cones that patter as they fall,The drifts that build thine outer wall,The rains that glisten in the traceOf thine inscription, dimmed apace,The winds that blow, the birds that sing,—Thou carest not for any thing!

The sun beats hard upon thy roof,

The tree’s cool shadow waves aloof;

Thou dost not heed, nor speak in ire,

Nor wound thy calm with vain desire.

The cones that patter as they fall,

The drifts that build thine outer wall,

The rains that glisten in the trace

Of thine inscription, dimmed apace,

The winds that blow, the birds that sing,—

Thou carest not for any thing!

Two centuries and more art thouIn solitude abiding; nowThis town is other than thy town;Its lanes are highways broad and brown;The oaken houses of thy day,And inns, and booths, are swept away.Strange spires would meet thine eager eye,New ships sail in, new banners fly;And names are kept of them that fellIn wars to thee incredible.

Two centuries and more art thou

In solitude abiding; now

This town is other than thy town;

Its lanes are highways broad and brown;

The oaken houses of thy day,

And inns, and booths, are swept away.

Strange spires would meet thine eager eye,

New ships sail in, new banners fly;

And names are kept of them that fell

In wars to thee incredible.

How beautiful thine endless rest!The quiet conscience in thy breast,Thy hidden place of peace, where passThe ghost-like stirrings of the grass;The long immunity from strife,The tumult, love; the trouble, life;The blossom at thy feet, to beA thousand summers, dust like thee;The winding-sheet, that white as worth,Shuts all thy failings in the earth.

How beautiful thine endless rest!

The quiet conscience in thy breast,

Thy hidden place of peace, where pass

The ghost-like stirrings of the grass;

The long immunity from strife,

The tumult, love; the trouble, life;

The blossom at thy feet, to be

A thousand summers, dust like thee;

The winding-sheet, that white as worth,

Shuts all thy failings in the earth.

My silent neighbor! thou and IKeep unobtrusive company.For us each wild October weavesThe glistening clouds, the glowing leaves,And March by March the robin sings,Against the solemn porch of King’s,His sweet good-morrow to us both.O be not harsh with me, nor wroth,That I, apart from all the throng,Break, too, thy silence with a song!

My silent neighbor! thou and I

Keep unobtrusive company.

For us each wild October weaves

The glistening clouds, the glowing leaves,

And March by March the robin sings,

Against the solemn porch of King’s,

His sweet good-morrow to us both.

O be not harsh with me, nor wroth,

That I, apart from all the throng,

Break, too, thy silence with a song!

FOOTNOTES:[D]Jacob Sheafe, an old Boston worthy, laid away in 1658, in a quiet northerly corner of King’s Chapel Burying-Ground.

[D]Jacob Sheafe, an old Boston worthy, laid away in 1658, in a quiet northerly corner of King’s Chapel Burying-Ground.

Overthe ships that are anchored,Over the fleets that part,Over the cities dark by the shore,High as a dream thou art!Beautiful is thy coming,Light is thy wing as it goes;And O but to leap and follow this hourThy perfect flight to the close,O but to leap and followWhere freedom and rest may be;Where the soul that I loved in surpassing loveHath vanished away, with thee!

Overthe ships that are anchored,Over the fleets that part,Over the cities dark by the shore,High as a dream thou art!

Overthe ships that are anchored,

Over the fleets that part,

Over the cities dark by the shore,

High as a dream thou art!

Beautiful is thy coming,Light is thy wing as it goes;And O but to leap and follow this hourThy perfect flight to the close,

Beautiful is thy coming,

Light is thy wing as it goes;

And O but to leap and follow this hour

Thy perfect flight to the close,

O but to leap and followWhere freedom and rest may be;Where the soul that I loved in surpassing loveHath vanished away, with thee!

O but to leap and follow

Where freedom and rest may be;

Where the soul that I loved in surpassing love

Hath vanished away, with thee!

Darlingof the cloistered flowers,Rising meekly after showers,Every cup a waving censer,—Winds are softer at thy coming;By thee goes the wild bee, hummingMusic richer and intenser.Indian balsam is thy breathing,Sabbath stillness thy enwreathing;Peace and thee no thought can sever.In thy plaintive looks and tender,Things of long-forgotten splendorThrill my inmost spirit ever.And I love thee in such fashion,With so much of truth and passion,In this sad wish to enshrine thee:Only pure hearts be thy wearers,Only gentlest hands thy bearers,Even if therefore mine resign thee;Even if now I yield thee whollyTo the pure and gentle solely,On whose breast thy cheek is lying!Droop and glisten where she laid thee,And remember me that made thee,Dear, so happy in thy dying.

Darlingof the cloistered flowers,Rising meekly after showers,Every cup a waving censer,—Winds are softer at thy coming;By thee goes the wild bee, hummingMusic richer and intenser.

Darlingof the cloistered flowers,

Rising meekly after showers,

Every cup a waving censer,—

Winds are softer at thy coming;

By thee goes the wild bee, humming

Music richer and intenser.

Indian balsam is thy breathing,Sabbath stillness thy enwreathing;Peace and thee no thought can sever.In thy plaintive looks and tender,Things of long-forgotten splendorThrill my inmost spirit ever.

Indian balsam is thy breathing,

Sabbath stillness thy enwreathing;

Peace and thee no thought can sever.

In thy plaintive looks and tender,

Things of long-forgotten splendor

Thrill my inmost spirit ever.

And I love thee in such fashion,With so much of truth and passion,In this sad wish to enshrine thee:Only pure hearts be thy wearers,Only gentlest hands thy bearers,Even if therefore mine resign thee;

And I love thee in such fashion,

With so much of truth and passion,

In this sad wish to enshrine thee:

Only pure hearts be thy wearers,

Only gentlest hands thy bearers,

Even if therefore mine resign thee;

Even if now I yield thee whollyTo the pure and gentle solely,On whose breast thy cheek is lying!Droop and glisten where she laid thee,And remember me that made thee,Dear, so happy in thy dying.

Even if now I yield thee wholly

To the pure and gentle solely,

On whose breast thy cheek is lying!

Droop and glisten where she laid thee,

And remember me that made thee,

Dear, so happy in thy dying.

Liegelady! believe me,All night, from my pillowI heard, but to grieve me,The plash of the willow;The rain on the towers,The winds without number,In the gloom of the hours,And denial of slumber:And nigh to the dawning,—My heart aching blindly,Unresting and mourningThat you were unkindly—What did I ostensibly,Ah, what under heaven,Liege lady! but sensiblyDoze till eleven?

Liegelady! believe me,All night, from my pillowI heard, but to grieve me,The plash of the willow;The rain on the towers,The winds without number,In the gloom of the hours,And denial of slumber:

Liegelady! believe me,

All night, from my pillow

I heard, but to grieve me,

The plash of the willow;

The rain on the towers,

The winds without number,

In the gloom of the hours,

And denial of slumber:

And nigh to the dawning,—My heart aching blindly,Unresting and mourningThat you were unkindly—What did I ostensibly,Ah, what under heaven,Liege lady! but sensiblyDoze till eleven?

And nigh to the dawning,—

My heart aching blindly,

Unresting and mourning

That you were unkindly—

What did I ostensibly,

Ah, what under heaven,

Liege lady! but sensibly

Doze till eleven?

WhenI was born and wheeled upon my way,As fire in stars my ready life did glow,And thrill me thro’, and mount to lips and lids:I was as dead when I died yesterdayAs those mild shapes Egyptian, that we knowSince Memnon sang, are housed in pyramids.

WhenI was born and wheeled upon my way,

As fire in stars my ready life did glow,

And thrill me thro’, and mount to lips and lids:

I was as dead when I died yesterday

As those mild shapes Egyptian, that we know

Since Memnon sang, are housed in pyramids.

Friend Charles!’tis long since even for a spaceWe stood in cordial parley: you and I,(Albeit about the selfsame city lieThe daily orbits we in silence pace),Seldom, how seldom, see each other’s face!Always had you a mill to turn near by,A race to aid; and I, with scarce a sigh,Passed, on like duties bound with heavy grace.But now good Leisure puts all things in tune,Now o’er their brimming bowls in odorous whiffThe gods send up the clouds above us curled,Let us go forth, my Charles! thro’ fields of JuneTogether, gladly, lovingly, as ifWe could not have enough of this sweet world.

Friend Charles!’tis long since even for a space

We stood in cordial parley: you and I,

(Albeit about the selfsame city lie

The daily orbits we in silence pace),

Seldom, how seldom, see each other’s face!

Always had you a mill to turn near by,

A race to aid; and I, with scarce a sigh,

Passed, on like duties bound with heavy grace.

But now good Leisure puts all things in tune,

Now o’er their brimming bowls in odorous whiff

The gods send up the clouds above us curled,

Let us go forth, my Charles! thro’ fields of June

Together, gladly, lovingly, as if

We could not have enough of this sweet world.

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